


Mania

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Metaphors, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Season/Series 05, They're both kind of into the fact that them making out would piss Jeremiah off, fighting as foreplay (for Jerome at least)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: A fight with Jerome doesn't end how Bruce expected.That doesn't mean it endsbadly.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 207





	Mania

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of Jerome kicking around and being a pain that Bruce has to deal with while Jeremiah is hidden away. Jerome dying was the worst thing to happen in Gotham, seriously. He will always live on in my heart.
> 
> Anyways, I couldn't seem to focus on my current multi-chaptered work today, so, uh, I opened a blank word document and this came out pretty easily. One part is heavily inspired by a scene in Princess Mononoke, and is essentially why I wanted to write this in the first place. I like it, it sort of reminds me of when I was writing for misfit(toy)s. Good times. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The sound of his heartbeat is so loud in his head that it almost completely drowns out the sound of the fight; only the sting of his knuckles grounds him to what he’s doing in the present moment.

What _they’re_ doing, now, when Bruce’s entire world may as well be on fire.

His city is cut off from the world. Jeremiah is in hiding. Outside of the hastily made barricades that separates what has been dubbed ‘The Green Zone’ from ‘The Dark Zone’ people are tearing the streets and each other apart.

No one more than he who Bruce is currently tussling with.

He who Bruce can never seem to be rid of.

Jerome’s laughter cuts through the chilled air like a knife. It’s the only thing louder than Bruce’s heart.

“Aw, come on,” he goads, blood drooling out of the corner of his wide mouth. His eyes are fever bright. Fighting always did seem to bring out his enthusiasm, Bruce wishes he didn’t seem so happy to have someone able to go toe-to-toe with him. Wishes his short-lived surprise when Bruce showed himself hadn’t felt familiar, as if they had a routine. “At least tell me how you figured out how to get all the way in here without being caught by my lackies.” 

Bruce twists, aims an elbow at Jerome’s throat.

It hits.

Usually Jerome is faster than this.

Bruce doesn’t allow himself to get overly confident—he hardly feels confident in anything anymore. He’s been ill-used and toyed with, he mourns and he rages and he bares his teeth like a feral thing as he slips into the Dark Zone to patrol because he can’t bear sitting still inside the barricades when so many people aren’t safe—he just gets to work, hitting harder and faster even though he can feel his body start to strain from his efforts. 

When he’d heard rumours that someone was stockpiling explosives of course he’d come running immediately, the last thing anyone needed was _more_ bombs going off. He hadn’t even known that it was Jerome and his Maniax that he was on the trail of until he’d tracked them to the docks where the graffiti on the buildings took a sudden, smiling turn. 

He’s surprised that Jerome didn’t actually roll a red carpet out for him, because this seems more like a trap than anything else Bruce has rushed into, and yet—

It’s still just them.

He knees Jerome in the gut, grabs him by the shoulders, throws him to the ground, pins him there with his knees braced on either side of his chest, clasps a single hand around his throat tight enough to feel his pulse.

Alive, always alive. How many times had Jerome cheated death? How many times would he continue to do so?

Jerome chokes on his fading laughter, and when he opens his eyes to look at Bruce they reflect the moonlight eerily.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasps after a moment of blessed silence. He’s not clawing at Bruce’s hand, not struggling to get away, and it’s very strange for him to not be putting up more of a fight—

The words catch up with Bruce several seconds after they’re stated, and even then he’s almost certain that he misheard.

“What,” he grits out, not at all in the mood for mind games.

“You need me to tell you again?” Jerome coos sweetly between his ragged inhales and exhales, hands resting peacefully and weaponless at his sides while Bruce’s weight rests on his ribs. “You’re beautiful.”

“You’re slower than usual,” Bruce says brusquely, consciously having to stop his fingers from twitching and digging in hard enough to cause lasting damage. What was the trick behind this? He casts a quick glance around in case Jerome is trying to distract him while someone sneaks up behind him. They’re still alone. “And you’re really grasping at straws if you think an inaccurate compliment will make me back off enough for you to get free.” Bruce knows what he looks like. He’s seen the shadows under his eyes and the waxy quality of his skin. He’s half-wild, out of breath and disheveled, and he can feel his jaw bruising from one of Jerome’s earliest hits. The only time he’d been less attractive was when he had clown makeup around his eyes and a stranger’s blood painted into a frown on his mouth. 

Jerome’s eyes flutter half-shut and his bloody smile widens.

“Had a little tango with some of Penguin’s men earlier,” he explains, breaths starting to even out, “so I’m afraid you’re not actually my first brawl of the evening, darlin’.” His hands drift up to rest on the sides of Bruce’s thighs and Bruce, even with how angry and focused he is, can’t keep himself from jerking lightly at the decidedly not-violent contact. He would have been less startled if Jerome tried to punch him in the throat. “And inaccurate? Brucie, I wish you could see yourself right now. There’s so much fire in your eyes, you look like you wanna burn me alive.”

“I’ll never kill you,” Bruce snaps, trying not to assign any weight or truth to Jerome’s words. It was better not to overthink the things that fell from his mouth. “Never.”

“Then what will you do?” Jerome’s hands rub up and down the outside of his legs. Bruce’s heart is still racing from the exertion of the fight and he attempts to even his breathing to slow it down, lest Jerome think he’s gaining some sort of upper hand with the bizarre display of gentleness. “Take me into the Green Zone and throw me in a cell? If you do that I’m sure a bunch of idiots will band together to try to finish the job that you can’t stomach.” He cranes his neck, as if inviting Bruce to strangle him for real. Bruce’s fingers do grasp a little tighter, a warning that unsurprisingly goes unheeded. “And then my Maniax will come storming in, and those barricades keeping your precious sheep safe? They’ll all be gone with a flick of a switch.”

“So you’re trying to convince me that it would be a better idea to let you go and ignore that you’ve been gathering explosives?” Bruce digs his knees firmly into Jerome’s side and tries not to feel too triumphant when he squirms in discomfort. “When a shepherd sees a wolf encroaching upon his flock, do you think he just lets the wolf do as it pleases?”

“With a shepherd like you to pursue,” Jerome purrs, evidently far too comfortable even with Bruce’s hand pressing steadily against his neck, “why would a wolf choose to hunt those bleating, boring sheep?”

“You make it sound as though you want to eat me.”

Jerome hums, eyelashes fluttering as he licks his lips. “I bet your blood would be sweet.” His hands drag more firmly against Bruce’s legs, and Bruce—Bruce wonders if he even wants to know what goes on in Jerome’s head, honestly, but he has a faint and growing suspicion that he’s not _just_ saying this to make Bruce back off. “The rest of you, too. Would you let me have a taste?”

“If I trusted you with a taste you’d just devour me whole.”

“Smart boy,” Jerome praises. Bruce wishes he were putting up more of a fight, because sitting astride him like this is starting to feel like something it most certainly is not. “But we’re at an impasse. You won’t kill me, and you can’t risk taking me. So, what shall you do with me?”

“I could grill you for information about Jeremiah. I have all night.”

Jerome rolls his eyes and huffs. 

“Why are you thinking about him right now? When you’ve got me pinned underneath you, no less? I’m hurt.”

“You’ll bounce back,” Bruce responds wryly. Perhaps a little too wryly, when he should instead be completely neutral. Detached. But no one else is around to witness his and Jerome’s unusual rapport, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. “And _everyone_ is looking for clues about Jeremiah’s whereabouts, so don’t act surprised that it’s at the forefront of my mind. He—” Bruce pauses, the wound of their broken friendship still too raw to explain fully, especially to the one who’d exposed Jeremiah to the gas that had precipitated his change in the first place. “—He used me. Betrayed me. He’s hurt me worse than you ever have, Jerome, and he didn’t even try to kill me.”

Jerome’s hands go still.

His palms are warm through the fabric of Bruce’s pants. 

Something inside of Bruce _twists_ strangely.

“Bruce,” Jerome whispers softly, and then—

Bruce should have seen it coming, really. But he’d let his guard down too much and was now going to have to pay the price for it.

The cement is cold on his back and Jerome is warm over top of him, one of his hands pinning both of Bruce’s wrists against his chest.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he coos. He reaches out as if to brush a lock of hair out of Bruce’s eyes and Bruce snaps his teeth at him, anger flaring up again. Jerome chuckles at the vicious display, then licks his lips again. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Brucie.” He leans down, too close too fast, and Bruce fights to stay collected. “I’ll never kill you, either.” 

“Liar,” Bruce accuses flatly. Jerome is too warm, too heavy. Bruce’s heartrate is kicking up again and he feels himself start to sweat.

“I’ve tried to kill you a few times, I’ll admit it, but come on. You really think that bomb collar tactic was me trying to get rid of you once and for all? Please. You,” he whispers, breath ghosting against Bruce’s face in a way that makes Bruce’s insides twist again. “are my favourite playmate. It’s you and me until the end, buddy, that's why I think we can strike a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yeah.” Jerome leans in even closer, until all Bruce can see are his fever bright eyes. It makes his breath catch in his throat. “I won’t kill you, you won’t kill me. You can’t take me with you because the negative consequences will hurt your flock,” Jerome laughs roughly on the word, baring his teeth and looking just as dangerous as the wolf the metaphor had made of him, “and if I try to keep you I’ll end up with way more problems to deal with than I originally anticipated tonight, like you trying and succeeding in destroying my entire stash.”

Bruce’s mind stutters.

Would Jerome try to keep him if it didn’t present additional problems for him to overcome?

“But I bet we’ve got a few hours before some search party starts crashing through my territory looking for you, and I bet it would only take you a few minutes tops to figure or fight a way out of this hold I’ve currently got you in, so.” Jerome lets go of Bruce’s wrists, and Bruce can hear the soft sound of his hands laying out on either side of his head. He doesn’t back away. He’s staring at Bruce like he’s ravenous and his pupils are blown. “How about we do something about this blatant sexual tension?”

Bruce opens his mouth, a vehement protest on his tongue—blatant? Sexual tension? Five minutes ago they’d been bruising each other up and breaking skin—but he can’t say anything because Jerome is not only a lunatic who cannot be reasoned with, but also a man of action.

The kiss startles Bruce for a second. Then he bites down on Jerome’s lower lip hard. It doesn’t quite have the effect that he wanted, because instead of backing off Jerome moans lowly and presses harder against him, and…

And Bruce doesn’t dislike it.

Fighting, evidently, was something that Jerome was _really_ into.

Bruce supposes that he shouldn’t be entirely surprised. 

There’s a brief internal struggle—far shorter than Bruce would ever admit to it being—where Bruce ponders over the pros and cons of giving in and allowing himself a pleasant diversion versus wrapping his free hands around Jerome’s throat and pressing down on his carotid arteries for long enough that he passes out. Jerome is awful, and he always manages to spark a dangerous fire inside of Bruce, and the previously alluded to attempts upon his life are just the poison-laced icing on a really terrible cake. 

But he feels good, and Bruce’s entire world might as well be on fire already, and—

And Jeremiah would absolutely detest this. To have the person who he desired as a best friend and a brother giving in to the one person on this earth that he despised above all others? It’s a backhand to the face.

Bruce huffs out a laugh and that, of all things, is what makes Jerome pull away.

“Something you wanna share?”

“Just thinking about how mad Jeremiah would be if he found out about this,” he answers truthfully, because he sees no point in lying. 

Jerome snorts. “Mad with jealousy, more like.” He cups Bruce’s face in his hands, his smirking mouth smeared with blood. His eyes glint like sharpened edges of metal. “But I suppose this is what he gets for hurting you more than _I’ve _hurt you.” His voice is just as sharp as his eyes. “I’ve got you here with me, and he’s rotting in solitude somewhere _wishing_ that he had you there with him.”__

__“He said he wanted me as a brother,” Bruce protests._ _

__“Gross,” Jerome drawls. “Let’s stop talking about him, he’s destroying the mood.” He ducks down to kiss Bruce again._ _

__This time Bruce kisses back._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Far across the city, in the depths of an abandoned church, Jeremiah feels a sudden urge to destroy something. ;)


End file.
